Misunderstanding
by xxBardApprenticexx
Summary: James T. Kirk is not so easily understood. No pairing yet, T to be safe, angsty, mentions of TOS canon. CHAPTER FOUR UP!
1. Misunderstood

**Disclaimer: Am not God, Gene, nor JJ. Do Not Own. No money. (aka: It's 3 in the morning and I don't have anything you could possibly want to sue me for.)**

**This started as part of a 5and1 I was working on, but the other chapters fell short of this one, and I couldn't bring myself to keep them together. So this will be a angsty little oneshot, and I'll write something to replace it for the 5and1 later.**

**Title: Misunderstanding  
Characters: James Kirk, Nyota Uhura (no pairing)  
Summary: Jim just wants to drink alone. Uhura arrives and makes some assumptions.  
James T. Kirk is not so easily understood.  
Rated: T **

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Jim slips into the bar quietly, sending an insincere grin at the girls whose eyes follow him, and heads straight for the bartender. He's wearing his grungiest civvies, and this bar is just far enough from anything Starfleet that he shouldn't be recognized.

He's alone on this outing, a first since he was given the Enterprise, and he wants it, no, needs it that way. So he dodged questions about his plans, distracted anyone who hinted at inviting him to anything, and spent all day hiding from Bones. He'll make it up to them all during their next 48 hour shore-leave. Because he needs it this way, tonight.

Tonight is for anonymity, solitude, and strong liquor.

He takes a stool, away from the large group crowding the holo-screen and cheering at some game or another, and orders a glass of top-shelf scotch, neat.

The throw-back is easy, the burn is bliss. The second only feels better.

Before he can motion for another, the bartender slides him the bottle.

He is so going to be tipping generously.

Somewhere between full bottle and half-full bottle, he really can't be sure when, a woman seats herself next to him.

This isn't new; he's been gently and oh-so-politely declining offers all night. Unfortunately, this is one woman he can't brush off.

"Scotty's going to be disappointed he lost the bet on your plans, Captain."

That much disdain and near-insubordination without directly breeching protocol? Jim doesn't bother to look. Uhura has somehow managed to find him, and it takes a surprising amount of self-restraint not to order her out of _his_ bar, his _escape_.

He can practically hear Spock chastising him for being illogical, and Bones calling him a territorial scoundrel.

"Yeah, well, he should know better than to bet against me. And you, Uhura? Have I confounded you with my unpredictable ways?"

Scotty's not the only one who should know better. It's never a good idea to provoke the darkly cunning communications officer.

"Not at all, Captain. Drinking your way into a bar fight is precisely your style."

Jim flinches, but refuses to let his face show how much her words sting.

"I guess it is. If you'll excuse me, Lieutenant, I'm going to search for my compulsory bar fight elsewhere."

He drops the credits on the bar (generous tip included), bids the bartender farewell with a grateful nod, and slips away into the crowd.

He briefly wishes he were sober enough to disappear properly, because it appears she's now following him to the dark little table in the corner.

"Do you really have to tarnish Starfleet's reputation every time you go out?"

He probably should have some witty repartee ready for her demand, but his eyes are glued to the old-fashioned paper calendar, and the date in big black bold text.

Those numbers are mocking him, taunting him. Yet he can't look away.

He takes another swig from the bottle.

Uhura shoots him a disgusted glare. Good. Maybe now she'll leave him to drink in peace.

Peace.

That's what he's looking for, elusive and fickle, in the bottom of this bottle.

Peace.

He hasn't earned it. Doesn't deserve it. Still, he wants it. Needs it. Craves it.

If just for tonight, he wants to silence the screams.

Uhura's waving her hand in his face, calling his name. He may be more intoxicated than he thought, but it's no where near enough. She calls him childish, alcoholic, sluty, irresponsible, reckless, and a few things he forces himself to forget, because he really doesn't want to court martial her.

"Please, Lieutenant, refrain from giving me motion sickness and just tell me what I can help you with."

She stops, thank god, taken aback. He knows why. His tone is flat, professional, cold. His face is blank, and his eyes are still glued to that damn calendar.

"Uh, right, Kirk, Captain. Sorry. Captain. I'll, um, see you on the bridge."

She rushes off, and he's relieved. The indifference slides away, and the overwhelming emotions take over.

Rage, fear, hatred, panic, terror, anger, loss, grief, pain, so much pain.

He barbarically chugs what's left of the bottle.

The clock strikes twelve, and he's yet another year away from Tarsus IV.

_[fin]  
_

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**  
Angst-muse is still behind the reins, for now. Smut-muse is plotting and laughing maniacally. **

**Hope ya'll enjoyed. Drop a line with your thoughts.**


	2. Halls

**I am so sorry this took so long! As I mentioned on some of my other newly-posted stories, I lost everything on my harddrive recently. I had to restart from scratch, but I think it turned out all right.**

**I am taking this in a direction I didn't even consider at first, but it came out like this, and I'm hoping everyone enjoys the new idea.**

**And so, without further ado, the much-too-late continuation!**

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Misunderstood

Chapter Two - Halls

..*^*..

When Jim wakes the next morning, it's to a soft, barely audible beeping and still-dark windows. He smothers a pitiful groan in his pillow, blindly reaching for the hypo on his dresser.

He winces as he injects the miracle hang-over cure, mind flashing to hours of vaccinations and tests and probing questions.

He shakes his head, firmly, dislodging all thoughts of that day and the subsequent weeks.

He hates himself for this aversion, this weakness.

Surviving Tarsus was one thing.

Learning to live in the aftermath, well, that was a challenge in itself.

Recognizing his quickly downward-spiraling mind set, Jim kicks off his blankets (those that managed to last the night, anyway) and glares at the ceiling.

"Computer, time."

"_Oh three hundred, Captain."_

Right, that's why its still dark out. He has to get back to the ship today, and prepare everything for the next mission, the one he's yet to be briefed on.

"Alright, fine. Lights to fifty percent. Any messages?"

_"Seventy two, Captain. Forty six with Starfleet authorization."_

Jim pauses in his stumbling path to the bathroom, shooting the ceiling a startled glance (he's always addressed the computer as if it were God, hovering above him, probably just to piss off Frank, and it's a hard habit to break).

"Damn. How many urgent?"

_"Four. One from priority designation 'Bones'."_

Jim hesitates, unsure if he wants to hear what his friend has to say or not.

"Play that one. Send the others to my PADD for later access."

_"Jim, I don't know what in the god damned hell you're thinking, let alone doing tonight, and I don't want to. But if you ever swipe one of my hypos again, I swear to god I'll declare you mentally unstable and have you locked up in my basement at my mercy until you're old and grey. McCoy out."_

Jim relaxes, even allowing himself a flare of warm amusement before the memories sweep in, cold and unforgiving. A pained, sardonic smile flutters across his lips.

"You have no idea, Bones, no idea. And I hope you never do."

He mutters to himself, glancing over at his uniform, pristine in gold and black.

..*^*..

An hour later, Jim is back on his ship and prowling the halls, still ahead of the sun.

He's humming an old classical piece, contented smile on his face, looking nothing like a man who spent the previous night drowning his pain in a veritable river of strong alcohols.

It's time for work, and he is once again Captain James T. Kirk.

The mask is back on.

He drops by Medical first, knowing Bones won't set foot aboard until he absolutely has to at 0630.

The Med-bay blessedly silent, and Kirk takes the time to quickly assess the area – he scans the empty beds, checks the new shipment waiting at the door against the records, and re-organizes the hypos the way he knows Bones likes them.

When he leaves, one of McCoy's favorite nurses is just approaching, Chapel, he thinks. With a nod and a cheeky grin, he steps aside to let her pass.

He waits outside until he hears her pleasantly surprised gasp – he may have also taken a few minutes to properly log and put away the new inventory – then heads for Engineering with a pleased grin.

Scotty's already there, of course, as is Keenser, but Jim doesn't mind. His Chief Engineer is so intent on making adjustments to the latest mandated 'upgrades' that he likely has no idea what time it is.

After nearly half an hour of heated ranting on the incompetence of ground engineers and the redundancy of 'paper-pushing-brass-concocted useless pointless regulations', Scotty is not only finished, but in a much better mood. Jim bids the Scot farewell, considering this visit a success, and ducks out.

His visits to the other departments are significantly shorter than the first two, and within an hour he's finished his informal round of the ship.

Steeling himself and solidifying his mask, Jim keys the turbo-lift.

At exactly 0605, he steps off onto the bridge.

He's greeted by a variety of expressions, most of which he expected.

Sulu and Chekov are all smiles; eager, bright, hopeful.

Scotty's giving him a knowing grin, one that says he knows Jim was helping out in engineering for more than captainly duty.

Spock, however, is scowling, or at least giving the impression of a disappointed scowl with a mere twitch of his eyebrows.

"You are later than I anticipated, Captain."

Spock's words are soft, keeping his rebuke between them. He sounds almost put out, as if upset by his inability to predict his Captain's whims.

Jim just shrugs, checks a few last things on his PADD, and crosses to his chair.

He's positive no-one, not even the Vulcan, notices the flare of anger that flashes in his eyes at the not-quite-insult.

"I'll try to be more punctual from now on. We still have nearly fifteen minutes before Starfleet contacts us with the mission brief, correct?"

Spock nods, surprised and pleased by his sense of time in this, and doesn't mention the Captain's tardiness again.

Jim refrains from telling Spock he's actually been on board for nearly three hours already, checking in on departments and repairs and updates, rediscovering his crew and his ship.

Because no one else needs to know that, not even the First Officer he's quickly coming to respect and turn to. No one needs to figure out that he doesn't sleep nearly as much as he should. Because that would lead to questions.

Jim doesn't like questions.

So when Uhura keeps glancing over at him, spine more rigid than normal, gaze searching, Jim finds himself unable to concentrate.

"Can I help you, Lieutenant?"

He asks, tone reminiscent of the icy professionalism he employed last night.

"No, Captain."

She replies, flushed, eyes stuck on her station now.

It's easier than it should be to refrain from a pleased smirk, and Jim knows his mask is slipping. He swallows down his panic and stares hard at the view-screen, eyes steely as he composes himself.

He pretends not to notice the concerned glances his crew are throwing around, and decidedly ignores Spock's inquisitive eyebrow and meticulously observant gaze.

There is awkward silence on the bridge for a minute, save soft-spoken reports and orders.

But as he relaxes into his façade, and nothing else strays from the norm, everyone settles into the comfortable routine of shipboard life.

Soon enough, the odd behavior is forgotten and it's just the start of another exciting tour aboard the USS Enterprise.

Jim, however, forgets nothing.

He makes a note to keep an eye on Uhura and stick rigidly to her concocted ideal of him around her. He even vows to be late to the next staff meeting, so Spock doesn't start setting expectations.

He will not falter, he will not slip up, he will not let anyone in.

He is James T. Kirk, and his life has been a tangle of lies since he was twelve years old on Tarsus IV.

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**This is the bridge chapter, really, between the old idea and the new. The crew's reactions and interactions have now been introduced, and the stage is set. Plot can begin, now! If I can write it like I see it in my mind, it's gonna be a bit of a ride. **

**Thanks, everyone, for sticking with me. I hope this chapter and the next ones are what you wanted in a continuation. If not, let me know, and I'll try to work in any requests.**

**Ciao, bellas!**


	3. Found Out

**God _damn_ summer semester! Especially of the six-week compressed class variety!**

**...Anywho.**

**I know this was supposed to be posted much sooner, but, as I'm sure you've gathered from above, class have eaten up all my time recently. **

**Sleep? Who has time for sleep?**

**I am running on caffeine and not much else, so please excuse any... odd bits you find.**

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Misunderstood

Chapter Two - Found Out

..*^*..

At oh-six-hundred hours every morning, Admiral Barnett indulges himself in a cup of his aide's heavenly fresh-ground coffee, the real un-replicated kind. It's a personal weakness, one that can be traced back to his younger days as a self-proclaimed, eternally-sleep-deprived, night owl.

But on the morning of such-and-such ceremony at such-and-such memorial (he really can't be expected to remember them all – admiralty comes with a depressing number of public appearances), his aide rushes into his office... without his coffee.

"Sir, you're not, I found, oh jesus."

The young man, usually impeccable in his civilian three-piece suit, is disheveled, from both his frenzied run and what seems to be a nervous habit of mussing his hair.

"Breathe, Jones, and tell what's so wrong that you actually managed to forget coffee."

Barnett urges teasingly, firmly patting the man on the back to encourage deeper breaths.

"Sir, I was looking through the archived files, for the ceremony this morning, for the Tarsus survivors, and…"

Jones has to stop to catch his breath again, and Barnett goes rigid.

Of course. It's the anniversary of Starfleet's arrival on Tarsus IV, the recognized end of the planet-wide famine, when the whole of the Federation stops to mourn and remember those lost.

Anything that has Jones flustered has to be bad, but to also be connected with that – tragedy wasn't even a strong enough word – is going to be monumentally terrible.

"And? For the love of God, Jones, don't keep this to yourself!"

"I came across some records, pictures, of the eight survivors who were actually on Kodos' list."

Only now does Barnett notice the old-fashioned paper copies in his aide's hand. Jones spreads them out on the desk, and Barnett distantly recognizes the style of photography specific to surveillance.

"Starfleet kept eyes on them for years afterward, just in case, and kept records of their movements and everyone they spent time with. They were declared too sensitive for the computerized systems, though, which were vulnerable to hacking back then, and so Admiral Archer ordered them limited to physical paper copies locked away in the old archives."

Barnett nods, agreeing with the former President's decision. The systems in those days were constantly under attack, and far too much classified material had been leaked to the press.

He surveys the pictures carefully, finding the same eight faces over and over. At least one of them is Starfleet, a young man who's just entered the Academy, in fact. He's a couple years ahead of his age group, but the depletion in the ranks from the Narada incident has yet to be corrected, and he has the recommendation of an active Captain – which one he can't recall.

He doesn't see anything suspicious in the pictures, though, certainly not of the sort Jones' behavior suggested.

"I'm not seeing anything out of the ordinary."

"Neither did I, sir. But then I noticed one face that kept popping up. Never more than once or twice with each one of the survivors, but he's there. At least once, he met with every one of them, and was greeted like an old friend. In fact, the one time they all managed to get together without the press finding out, he was there."

"You think there's another survivor. Someone else who was to be killed."

"Yes, sir."

"But that's impossible. The officers who arrived on the colony screened and questioned everyone. They double-checked all the names."

"But, sir, that's the problem. Checked them against what? We don't have the list."

"_What?_"

"I know. Every news holo, every official press release, every report submitted: I checked everything, looked every where. Then I went to one of Admiral Archer's aides. He gave me this."

He carefully laid out another paper – a creased, crumpled, dirty, torn scrap.

"What is it?"

"A list of those Kodos did kill, the last week or so at least. And five that were scheduled for execution the morning Starfleet arrived, all of whom are listed as part of the eight. But there's a note here, on the bottom. It mentions others, ones Kodos had captured, but wanted to make dramatic examples of. Two of them are recognizable as more of the eight survivors, from the descriptions of age and families given. But, and here's where I started to connect the dots, sir, there isn't one more mentioned, which would be the eighth survivor."

Jones turns the paper, and points to a jumble of short, messy lines at the very bottom of the page.

"There's two."

..*^*..

Barnett can't move.

Hell, he isn't sure he can breathe at the moment.

There's another survivor.

One more person who can identify Kodos, possibly definitively enough that they can actually track him down this time.

"What does it say?"

His voice is hoarse, painfully so, and he's almost surprised he can speak at all.

Jones throws him an understanding glance, having obviously experienced the same kind of distress upon his discovery, and turns back to the paper.

"Well, it was written in a kind of short-hand slang that some of the colonists were inclined to use, so it's not exactly accurate, but it's close enough.

'_The fair one, with the…_'

well, it's something similar to unnatural, but it could also mean dead or unliving,

'_eyes, has been causing trouble again. The Esteemed Governor has great things in store for that one. The star boy won't have much to smile about when he hears what's coming. Keep him on half-rations, so he's strong enough for his punishment, but watch him. He gives his food to the others if you don't stop him. Remember, the Governor wants him alive until the last. After all, what better way to get to the…_'

again, sir, the nearest I can figure is leader, but it's got connotations of military commander or the like as well."

"My god. The one person who actually fought against Kodos and survived, and we never even knew. He probably walked right past us. Hell, we must have had him on one of our ships! In a med bay!"

Barnett pauses a moment, trying to consider the implications. Whoever this mystery rebel is, he was obviously indecently young when everything happened. He'll be of age for the academy now, actually. And if there's any sanity salvageable under all the, totally justified, mental issues from that ordeal, Starfleet can use someone with morals and instincts like that.

"And the man in the pictures? Does he fit the description?"

He asks, starting to grow excited at the possibilities blooming behind his eyes.

Jones suddenly shuts down, becoming uncomfortable and fidgeting.

"Jones?"

"I think… I think he fits rather perfectly, sir. So perfectly, that I'm somewhat shocked no one noticed before this. And yet…"

"Yet, what? Jones, what are you talking about?"

"Well, I think it's something better seen for oneself, sir."

All is silent in the office but for the scrape of pictures sliding across the desk.

There's one of each of the known survivors with a young man. They were taken over the span of many years, as evidenced by the varied ages of the man, but that face is recognizable to anyone and everyone within the reach of the Federation, and quite a few beyond.

In all eight pictures, there is a shock of golden hair above sun-kissed skin and haunted, uniquely blue eyes.

Staring up from the pictures is none other than James T. Kirk.

* * *

**So, here's the beginning of the shiny new plot!**

**Barnett knows, and he's not keeping quiet. **

**Next chapter: The Admirality is NOT HAPPY, Kirk is confronted, and Uhura has the _worst. timing. ever_.**

**Thanks, everyone, for sticking with me. I hope this works for y'all as a continuation. If not, let me know, and I'll try to work in any requests.**

**Ciao, bellas!**


	4. Confrontation

**Hello, my loverly ones! I am sooooo sorry that it's been so long. There is no excuse (well, actually, there are a few, but none of them seem good enough looking back). **

**You reviewers have been so wonderful and patient, and I really adore you all.**

**As it is, I obsessed over this chapter for far too long, hoping it would end up good enough for you lovely people.**

**I'm still not satisfied, but I don't think it will tolerate any more change at this point.**

**So, without further delay, here is the latest chapter of Misunderstood - Confrontation.**

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At 0900, Enterprise is gliding smoothly through space at Warp 3. Their mission isn't urgent, and they won't exhaust the dilithium cores until they (inevitably) need to.

So for now, she drifts peacefully as her crew go about their daily duties.

Engineering is quiet for once, with only small inconsequential work being done, which the Chief Engineer isn't needed for.

Medical is equally slow, the only patients suffering from nothing more than sunburn and sprains received during shore leave.

Thus, the entirety of Enterprise's command crew is on the bridge, enjoying the chance to work and banter together without the stress of danger looming.

Scotty sits on the floor between Chekov and Sulu, occasionally darting underneath one or the other's panel, fussing with something, and reappearing with a wild grin. The three are speculating and theorizing jovially, getting more absurd with each passing minute.

Spock hovers far closer to Uhura's station than his own, but no one wants to mention it. Besides, the Science Officer still seems to know exactly what he needs to, as evidenced by his quick correction of McCoy's estimation as to how close the ship is getting to the dwarf star visible on the view-screen.

The Chief Medical Officer is leaning against the back of Jim's chair, hands repeatedly brushing his Captain's shoulders as he gesticulates, muttering about disgustingly literal hobgoblins between teasingly critical comments on the bridge crew's operation.

Jim smiles as he surveys his domain, his people, his slice of happiness. And that's exactly what the Enterprise is to him: happiness, pure and simple.

He has his ship, his crew, his command, and Bones. All is well.

Then the comm at Uhura's station beeps, signaling an official hail.

Without a word from their Captain, all present settle back into a professional bearing.

"It's Admiral Pike, Captain, on his private channel."

Uhura's announcement earns large grins from the whole command team, and much of the bridge crew.

"Awesome! Put him through, Lieutenant."

There is a brief moment of delay, and then Chris Pike's image appears on the screen.

He's the same as ever, seemingly untouched by the year that has passed since the Enterprise set off. He is standing behind his desk – testament to Bone's miraculous talents – in his private office at home… and he is pissed. The livid glare he is sending the comm should have fried the electronics, and Jim is suddenly very_, very_ glad he's a quadrant and two systems away.

"Uh, I'd say something smart about how glad I am to see you, even if the comm does add a couple pounds, but, uh, I'm thinking now's not the time."

"You would be correct, Captain. Lieutenant Uhura, transfer this call to the Captain's quarters, and enable every god damn encryption you have, and a few you officially don't."

Struck dumb by the unprecedented behavior from the generally calm and friendly Admiral, Uhura immediately complies.

Just before he is cut off, Pike snaps out one last cryptic, shocking addendum.

"And Captain, you might want Mister Riley to join you."

Blinking at the blank view screen, Kirk sits for a moment in shock. Then his mind catches up with his ears, and he pales.

McCoy and Spock both step toward him, worry shining clear in their eyes.

Before they or the rest of the bridge can blink, let alone react, Kirk is moving again, racing toward the turbo-lift.

"Jim, hold on, let me," "Captain, perhaps I should accompany,"

"_NO!_"

Both men freeze as the panicked shout explodes out of the Captain, keeping them at bay far more effectively than his outstretched hand.

There is a moment of heavy silence as Kirk recoils from his own reaction in horror and immediately forces unto himself a semblance of control.

"Doctor McCoy, you are to remain here or return to medical. Commander Spock, you have the conn."

Blue eyes still stormy and horrified – a total contradiction to his firm and commanding tone – he lurches forward to slam the lift's panel, then falls back against the wall, knuckles white where he grips the rail.

McCoy blinks at the doors that suddenly separate him from his rapidly fleeing friend, a terrible sinking feeling settling in his gut.

If there's one thing Leonard McCoy recognizes, it's running away.

"Fuck."

..-*^*-..

Kevin Riley is in the process of stripping off his Fleet-issued work-out gear when his door flies open and a blur of _something _crashes into him.

He falters a step, but manages to remain upright, arms instinctively curling around the solid weight that is now slamming him against the wall of his quarters.

"What the,"

"_They know._"

There's only one person aboard the Enterprise who knows he understands Cardassian, let alone is daring enough to speak it.

"Jim?"

He tries to push back from the command gold shirt he's being crushed to in order to see his unexpected visitor, but Kirk's grip only tightens.

"_They know, _Kevin. _They fucking know!_"

Kevin isn't sure what to make of the situation. Kirk is clutching at him as if their lives depend on it, hissing in goddamn Cardassian that someone knows something.

His shirtless state and the trembling of Kirk's shoulders only make it all that much more surreal.

"Kirk, what the hell is going,"

"_Don't know how, but they fucking figured it out."_

Mind racing, Kevin tries to narrow down what could possibly have driven the captain to come to him.

It can't be anything to do with the Enterprise, because Jim has Doctor McCoy and Commander Spock for that kind of thing.

It's not a past transgression coming to light, because Kirk lost any shame he may have had long ago.

No, it has to be something that involves him, something bad enough to draw this feral, defensive personality to the fore.

That's when Kevin realizes what he should have the moment this man burst into his quarters in a panic.

Because this isn't Kirk, not anymore.

This is JT.

And if JT is back, it can only mean one thing.

"Oh, fuck."

His knees start to wobble, and it's only by JT's frightening reflexes and wiry strength that Kevin doesn't crumple to the floor.

As it is, he's lowered gently to sit leaning against the wall, with JT hovering protectively over him.

"_How? We were so careful!_"

Kevin wants to moan, to sob, to pitch a fit and beg JT to just make it go away, like he did the guards that ventured too close to their hideout.

But he's not a little boy anymore, and this isn't _that place_.

This is the Enterprise.

He is a Starfleet Officer.

So, he steels his resolve, straightens his spine, breathes out his fear and panic and anxiety, and looks up at JT.

"_What do we do?_"

JT smiles.

It's not so much a smile, really, rather a slight curling of the lips that manages to convey pride while remaining dark and threatening, but Kevin's chest swells all the same.

"You warn the others. I'll cover our tracks."

"And if they don't back off?"

JT's smile went from dark to outright malevolent.

"Then I kill as many as it takes for them to change their minds."

Kevin wonders of maybe it makes him a monster, being comforted by such a dark, gruesome promise. He decides he doesn't really care either way.

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**Well, there it is. Not sure it lives up to the rest of the story, but, eh. That just means the next one will have to be better, doesn't it?**

** Anyway, hope you all enjoyed.**

**Oh, and ****I also want to reassure (or possibly disappoint) y'all: this will not focus on romance. I'm not going to promise that I'll keep it out completely, because Jim often insists on changing things about as I write (he's impossible, really). So if there are subtle hints of relationships anywhere (possibly of the slash variety), I apologize, but rest assured, they WILL NOT take over the story. This is about Jim and his trauma with Tarsus and the crew's reactions when they find out. I won't be giving Jim hot sweaty lovin time – no matter how much he whines!**

**That is all.**


End file.
